


Come To Me

by Mohini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1805686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chill of fall in Scotland seeps into our bones as we sit here, neither knowing what to say, what to do, how to fix who we've become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come To Me

He’s huddled in a little ball at the edge of the water, and his skinny frame seems even more so as he shakes in the chilly breeze. I sit beside him, reaching one hand out for his. “Can’t sleep?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer, just leans against me, allowing me to wrap an arm around his narrow shoulders. We’ve been here a month now, back in a school neither of us wished to return to. I found him out here on our second night, neither of us able to sleep. He had been crying then, great heaving sobs that drew me to him, and without a thought I had wrapped my arms around him and held him close. 

“I don’t like what I see when I close my eyes, Potter,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“Pomfrey says I can’t have any more Dreamless Sleep. Claims it’s addictive or some such rot. Alcohol just makes me sick. Wonder how long a person can actually go without sleeping?”

“She’s cut me off as well. I’ve got calming draughts if that would help,” I tell him. He shrugs.

“They probably wouldn’t. Nothing stops the nightmares, and no one wants to be woken up by me screaming my head off about things that don’t even exist.”

“I’ve got Vitalis.”

“Thank god for that, at least,” he says softly. It’s no secret that the not quite legal invigoration draught is the only thing keeping either of us on our feet most days. Hermione insists I would sleep better if I stopped taking it. I wish I could believe her, but she doesn’t know what I see at night. I’m glad for that, really I am, but it makes it hard for her to really understand why I can’t close my eyes.

He’s still shivering, and as I look more closely at him, I realize that his lips are a little bit blue. “We should probably get you back inside,” I tell him. He shrugs.

“You’re half frozen, Malfoy. I don’t want to have to explain your frozen corpse to anyone, yeah?”

“Not cold enough for that yet,” he tells me, and the calm in his voice is unnerving. “Scotland in September isn’t exactly balmy, but I won’t freeze to death before at least late October.”

“Got it all planned out, then?” I ask, and I’m not sure anymore if this conversation is theoretical at all. 

“Perhaps,” he says, staring out at the lake. 

“Then I won’t be letting you out of my sight once the weather turns,” I tell him. He looks over at me, and suddenly I know that he is deadly serious.

I place both hands on his shoulders and look directly into his eyes. “I’ve got one question and I want an honest answer, alright?” 

He nods and I continue. “Do you want to hurt yourself?”

His eyes fill with tears, and I pull him close to me, wrapping my arms tight around his shoulders. “Yes,” he whispers against my robes. 

“Draco,” I say softly, as his shivering from the cold morphs rapidly into heaving sobs. I don’t know what to say. I have no idea what to do to help him. We sit there, huddled against one another as the sun slowly rises over the lake. He quiets eventually, and I rub his back in what I hope to be a soothing rhythm. 

“We need to get back up to the castle,” I tell him eventually. Classes will be starting soon, and though I know he’s in no fit state, I also know that if we don’t show up or at least send a decent excuse, there will be hell to pay. He doesn’t answer, just mutely allows me to drag him to his feet and lead him through the castle doors. I take him up to the 8th year dormitory, opening the door to the room we are assigned to share with Seamus Finnegan and Blaise Zabini. 

Blaise is on his way out the door as I steer Draco toward it. “You look like shit!” he says, reaching a hand out towards Draco, who finches away. 

“He’s got a migraine,” I lie quickly. “I think I’m going to stay with him, at least for the morning, if you could pass our excuses along?”

“No problem, Potter. I’ll let Seamus know not to bother you guys,” he tells me, before quietly closing the door behind him.

Draco still hasn’t said a word, and I guide him to his bed, where he sits on the edge and stares at the floor with his head in his hands. “I’m fine,” he whispers.

“You’re a shit liar, Draco,” I tell him.

“Would you prefer I tell you that I can name twenty different ways to off myself depending on the time of day and how much pain I feel like I can deal with? That I’ve got a razor in my trunk that fucking begs me to open up a fucking vein? Maybe that I can’t close my eyes at night because I know I’ll wake up screaming and that I know I fucking deserve it for what I did? What do you want me to say?” his voice is emotionless, and I don’t think twice about the invasion of his space when I kneel in front of him so that I am at his eye level.

“I want you to say you’ll let me help you,” I tell him. 

“I can’t say that,” he whispers. “You asked me to be honest.” 

I don’t know what to say to that. I sit in silence, watching him while trying not to stare. His face is still hidden in his hands, and if it weren’t for the subtle change in the shivering, I would never know that he is crying. I’m still crouched in front of him, and spend a moment trying to decide what to do. Finally, I settle for simply holding him. I sit beside him and pull him towards me. He is positively floppy, and I wonder how he has been managing to remain upright. He cries silently into my chest for a long while, and eventually his breathing evens out and I realize that he has cried himself to sleep in my arms. I’m afraid to move, worried that any change in position could wake him. So I sit there, holding a sleeping Draco in my arms as his tears cool against my skin and his breath is warm and gentle against me. He sleeps like this for more than an hour, before startling awake with a sharp cry. 

“It’s alright, you’re safe,” I tell him, tightening my hold on him as he tries to pull away. He struggles for a moment, then relaxes once more against me, his breathing a little fast but otherwise no sign of whatever woke him remains. 

“Do you want to lie down?” I ask him.

He shakes his head against me, hands tightening their grip on my shirt. I decide to say it, even though I’m not at all sure how it will be taken.

“I’ll hold you,” I tell him. 

I barely hear his reply, little more than a breath against me. “Please,” he whispers. 

I settle us into the bed, keeping one arm wrapped around him as I pull up a blanket and maneuver his still mostly limp body into a comfortable position. He is painfully thin, and I make a mental note to feed him when next he wakes. 

“M’sorry,” he mumbles into my shoulder.

“Shh, you’ve nothing to be sorry for. Just rest now, yeah? I’ve got you. You’re safe here,” I tell him, shifting so that I can get my hand up to gently comb my fingers through his hair. I have no idea if it’s a remotely reasonable thing to do for him, but it feels right, and he sighs against me as I move my fingers through soft blonde strands.

He’s shaking again, and though there are no tears this time, it is no less heart-wrenching to witness him falling apart. I continue petting his hair, whispering over and over that I’ve got him, that he’s safe, that I’m not going anywhere. We’ve been dancing around this for so long, it seems like forever. I know that there are more similarities in our childhoods than either of us would like to admit, that we were born to be soldiers in a war neither of us should have had any part in. We were programmed from birth to never ask questions, to simply obey, no matter the cost. No one cared what it would do to us in the end, and here I am, with him in my arms and no idea how to put either of us back together again.

“I can’t do this,” he says, his voice scratchy and broken. 

“I know,” I reply. 

“You don’t, Potter. It fucking hurts and I’m so tired. I can’t do this. I really can’t.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” I tell him, and he is silent for a long while. I half suspect he has fallen asleep again before he speaks.

“You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“I do. I know what you did, and I know why you did it. I know how much it fucking hurts and I know how much you don’t want to feel anything anymore. I know that I’m willing to hold you, as much as you need, as long as you need. I’m not going anywhere, Draco. I know perfectly well what I’m offering, and so do you.”

“If you’re lying, I’ll fucking kill you,” he whispers.

“You know I’m not,” I reply, slipping the hand that has been running through his hair down to brush against the side of his face, gently tilting his chin upwards. I look into his eyes, seeing a world of pain there. He holds eye contact, and I realize with a shock that he is capable of wandless Legilimency. I am, it turns out, still a shit Occlumens. 

It doesn’t take long before he withdraws, long, thin fingers reaching up to touch my face. I know what he saw. My best defense against Snape had been to push memories to the surface, and so I had automatically called up one memory I knew would say more than any words I could ever string together. 

“Fuck, Harry,” he whispers.

“I told you I understand,” I reply, not sure whether to be angry or grateful that I won’t have to actually explain just how much I understand. The memory I had pressed towards his search was of a night the summer before 7th year. Vernon had beaten me hard enough that breathing was a herculean task. I had spent the night sitting in my bed, wand before me, a small switchblade nicked from Dudley’s room in my hand. By the end of the night, my arms bore a tracery of cuts, each one healed with a quick spell as I drew the blade over my flesh time and again. The pain of my own making gradually wiped away the agony in my bruised ribs, stilled the voices in my head. It wasn’t an attempt at death. I wasn’t anything but an effort to settle myself. It had worked, but damn had it hurt. 

He doesn’t speak, just stares at me with his hand along the side of my face, thumb stroking along my cheekbone. I move closer to him, our lips barely touching as I kiss him. Nothing more than a soft brush of my lips against his own, but it feels like coming home. When he pulls away from me, eyes searching mine I cradle the back of his head in my hand, staring back at him. 

“Don’t you ever, ever fucking do that to yourself again. You come to me. I don’t ever want to find scars on your arms. Do you understand?” His voice is the strongest I’ve heard it all night. I nod in reply. I had only wanted him to know that I understood how deeply he hurt. I hadn’t been asking for this, but I would take it all the same. 

“And you?” I ask.

“I’ll come to you,” he tells me.


End file.
